


Heavy Metal

by reinadefuego



Category: Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Community: allbingo, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 00:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11886438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reinadefuego/pseuds/reinadefuego
Summary: Nobody asks Luke to play babysitter to a Shaw. Luke obliges.Written for cotton candy - "stuck together - literally" at allbingo.





	Heavy Metal

**Author's Note:**

> Although this is set in the same 'verse as most all of my Fast and the Furious fics, it aligns more with 'An Eye for an Eye' and 'What Is That, That Freaky Thing?' than any of the others.

"Do you mind?"

"Nobody just wants to make sure you don't decide to go snooping around." He smiles, and it's almost genuine. The truth is he doesn't want to be here, but the enjoyment of seeing her squirm is rather irresistible. There's also the matter of her growing on him but he brushes that aside in the face of principle. Luke slips the bracelet around her left wrist and secures it; the other end closes around his right. "If you need to use the bathroom, just let me know."

"Excuse me?"

"You're a Shaw, why are you so surprised?"

"I didn't think he was serious."

Mr. Nobody has spent the past three weeks grandstanding. Twenty-one long days having to play his game and act as if there was nowhere else she wanted to be. Five hundred and four hours spent in the on and off company of one Luke Hobbs, and co.

"Word of advice: he doesn't stoop to your level, and he always gets what he wants."

Yes, she understands that now. Elizabeth curses under her breath in Russian and starts to walk back towards her desk, taking two steps before her arm is nearly jerked out of her socket and her body starts to tilt sideways.

"It's late, and I'm hungry."

"So take the cuffs off and you can go eat."

He shakes his head and mouths 'no'. She can bat her eyelids all she wants and it won't make any difference whatsoever. He's not letting her win this round. She got her tools, her circuits: allowing her to flounce about and preen her feathers will only end in an inflated ego and her nose as high in the air as it can go. "You're coming with me."

"The hell I am. I have work to do."

"Yes, you do. You've also got a body that requires feeding, and a brain that can't run on oxygen alone." There's a slight sarcastic tone to his voice, along with a hint of condescension, and a gentleness usually reserved for toddlers. The glare she gives him is priceless as he turns around and starts walking, just about ready to throw her over his shoulder if need be. "Or would you like me to call Magdalene and tell her what a bad girl you've been?"

"Sod off." Elizabeth purses her lips and focuses on matching his walking pace. His strides are almost twice the length of hers and if she's learnt anything in the past three weeks, it's that Hobbs doesn't mess around. She grunts when he picks up speed. Bastard. Had she known this hunt would require the physical prowess of a soldier, she might've trained for a week before the eventual kidnapping. Shaw starts to jog and their arms swing in time, heavy leather boots pounding the polished concrete floor.

It's loud and sweat-inducing, the chain on the handcuffs jangles to the point of irritation, but by the time they reach the cafe, Hobbs is nearing a sprint. It's also exhilarating because she's panting and gasping for air while he's barely broken a sweat.

In the day, when the heat is humid, he's always drying himself with a towel or changing shirts. Three showers in one day is his record so far. Oh God, the fact she's paid enough attention to know that is almost depressing. Perhaps it's a sign three weeks has been far too much time spent in the company of people who'd rather see her — and her family — behind bars than walking the streets of Los Angeles, free to pose a threat whenever they feel Toretto hasn't quite learnt his lesson.

Luke slows down once they're at the doors but doesn't wait for her to catch her breath, instead he walks inside, forcing her to follow or be stuck on the other side of a glass door in the freezing desert air.

At night, it's a bitter cold that reminds her of home. Sand can't retain heat, she's learnt, and so the days are warmer than she'd like and the nights verge on bone-chilling. Elizabeth follows him in without hesitation while her heart pounds away, her cheeks flushed red and a slight smile on her face. Two weeks ago, it would've been impossible to keep up with him.

Now?

She just ran from the warehouse across the facility to the main building in less than five minutes. For her, this might as well be a personal best.

Hobbs seats them at a table in the corner. Backs to the walls, their arms rest between them, her hair tickling his skin and making him all too aware that something has begun to change in the past near-month. He knows the what, the why; Luke's even figured out the when, and yet the how still escapes him.

She grabs the menu and lifts it awkwardly. Silently, she thanks him for holding the other side so she can flip pages with one finger. Her stomach growls its demand and yet again, he's proven himself right.

"They make some mean pirozhki here," Luke comments, tapping the menu with his pinky. "Pork knuckle and sauerkraut is pretty good too."

Elizabeth scrunches up her face as if he just suggested she eat ox heart, or tongue, or some other internal organ. Sauerkraut smells weird, the taste of pork has become cringeworthy, and the idea that anyone who isn't Kolya or Baba Marya could make a half-decent pirozhki is laughable. She gestures to the menu and says, "I'll have whatever you're having."

Luke chuckles. The usual it is. In truth, the pirozhki aren't even on the secret menu, and he's pretty sure the chef would murder him if he ever suggested pork knuckle and sauerkraut pass through those doors.

Deanna walks over and smiles at him moments after he waves, pen and notepad in hand, head tilted to the side and eyebrows raised as if to say 'you're back already?' regardless of the fact he hasn't been here in two days. "What can I get you, Hobbs?"

"Two of the usuals, please." He doesn't quite remember if it was Fusco or Wilkes that got him onto the idea of pineapple on a burger, but there's something about that burst of sweetness; and the look on Samantha's face every time he orders it, well that leaves him wanting to try pineapple on everything. "With extra sauce, thank you, Dee."

"Coming right up."

There's thirty bucks already stashed in his pocket for the tip, and it has Dee's name written all over it. She's worked here for as long as he can remember. A woman with that classic southern charm who isn't afraid to ask who made the potato salad, and supports a wife and two kids.

"What's the usual?" Elizabeth says, eyeing off the menu. There has to be some clue as to what she's about to eat for her last supper. If this kills her, she's going to find the Devil himself and demand to be sent back in order to haunt him.

"Burger with the lot."

"Translation?"

"Mac? Yeah, it was Mac. He worked at the main American embassy in Australia before joining the team all those years ago. Said if you walk into any takeaway store and ask for a 'burger with the lot', you wind up leaving with what tastes like the bastard love child of a hamburger, a Hawaiian pizza, and a salad, but it's delicious."

It makes no sense whatsoever, but Elizabeth digresses and gestures for him to keep talking. She doesn't know if he's aware of it or not, but the moment he said Mac's name, his entire face lit up and truth be told she hasn't seen his eyes shine like that at all in the time she's been here. His smile is wide and infectious so she returns it half-heartedly as the bracelet digs into the skin of her wrist, serving to remind her that all this pleasantness will eventually end.

"You got your bottom bun, then there's lettuce, tomato, sliced beetroot, a meat patty with cheese, a pineapple ring, caramelised onions, bacon, a whole fried egg sunny side up, and your sauce of choice."

"It sounds revolting."

Luke waves her off. If there's one thing he's learnt about her, it's that she focuses too much on survival. There's no time for adventure. "You'd think so, but hold off on your judgement till you bite into it."

"Hobbs, why am I here? I don't believe for a minute you're the one Nobody would choose to babysit me."

"Then you best believe it, Shaw. These cuffs ain't coming off till I say they do."

His brightness fades and leaves no trace of itself behind as Luke lifts his right arm and drags hers up with it. She's going to crack at some point, he knows it. Maybe it wont be by the end of the month, and perhaps it'll take far longer than either he or Nobody expects it to, but that crack will form and her bullshit English-Russian tough-as-nails wannabe-gangster facade will fall apart, leaving the real Elizabeth Shaw exposed.

She'll hate it at first, probably for a long time. Eventually Shaw will realise the weight she's carrying around was never hers to bear in the first place and they might just succeed in taking Cipher down.

Deanna arrives fifteen minutes later with two plates and sets them down. Elizabeth looks between it and Hobbs, frowning in confusion as he immediately picks up his fork and starts digging in, breaking the pastry, piling on the mashed potatoes, and dipping it in a flood of brown gravy.

"It's a bloody pie." If there really is a God out there, she's going to have to start praying again. Whatever happened in that kitchen has resulted in food. Edible food. Real food that doesn't look like it came out of a ration pack from Deckard's SAS days.

"You think they'd let me order a burger like that? Nah, I'm just messing with you." Luke chuckles and nudges her with his elbow. "Eat up. After this, we're running the entire facility."

"That's twelve kilometres." She takes a guess based on the maps she's seen. The shrug Luke gives her suggests it's close enough. "Luke, I can't run that far."

He makes no visible reaction to the sudden name change, but internally, Luke's scratching his head wondering how she just slipped up. It's never Luke, just Hobbs, or Fed. She keeps her distance by using surnames, or ranks. It helps him too. If he calls her Shaw, there's no risk of forming an attachment.

Hobbs keeps eating his chunky beef pie with mash and gravy and savours the flakiness of the pastry, making no effort to pretend he's some sort of proper gentleman, or that he hasn't lost ten pounds while waiting. Luke's been surrounded by four walls all evening, impatient to escape this monotonous reality and finally reach the cafe, and if sitting in the corner handcuffed to an Englishwoman who seems to have a thing for putting herself in cramped spaces with him is what it takes to get himself a decent meal, he'll sit here for two more days till dessert arrives.

She scrapes off the mashed potato and picks up the pie with one hand, biting into it without a second thought. "Bozhe moiy, eto ocheen —" Elizabeth swallows and gives Luke a thumbs up with her cuffed hand. "This beats Magdalene's pie into submission and dances on its grave."

"Better not let her hear that." He almost says 'your mother' and corrects himself before it comes out. That's a conversation he understands all too well and it's one Luke won't bring up before she does.

When she's finished, he waits a few minutes before hauling her outside. It's colder than before, his breath comes out as a stream of white cloud that turns to wisps and fades into the night. The air bites at his skin and sends a shiver down his spine, reminding him the chill won't ease till the sun rises over the facility.

With Elena on the other side of the country, he has no partner to work out with any more. There  _are_  those twenty little girls, but a training session with them involves mani-pedis at the end and Luke's pretty sure his nails are buffed enough to last the next six months. He could ask Deckard, as awkward as it would be, never mind the unintended consequences of them appearing to like each other; or, and it's a big or, he does have an opportunity standing to his right.

"What're you waiting for, an embellished invitation from Windsor Castle?" Elizabeth says, noticing the way he's staring into the distance. If he doesn't start moving in the next few minutes, she's got perfect kicking range and an opportunity to strike a rather obvious target. She checks his gaze again, eyes still lost and struggling to grasp something solid. It's his deep in thought face, the one he wears when he's troubled; as strong as her desire to stay out of his business is, a pang of sympathy radiates in her chest. "Luke?"

"Sorry, I —" What the hell is wrong with him? She's here for one reason and one reason alone, and it's not to entertain him. That would go completely against his nature, as if he hasn't done that twice already. Hobbs reaches into his left pocket and feels for the key. This isn't working. He knows it, she knows it, and cuffing himself to a goddamn Shaw as part of his babysitting duty was a ridiculous idea.

"Well this was fun, and I enjoyed the pie, but I think I'm going to go back to the motel and sleep." She finishes picking the cuff with the bobby pin that always keeps her fringe back out of her eyes and slides her wrist free. It's getting too cold for her liking and she can feel the wind tickling her nostrils, threatening to spur her on into a sneezing fit. "Mind if I borrow the Gurkha?"

"You touch that car, I'll break your goddamn hands."

"Now why does that threat sound familiar?" Elizabeth says, unable to hide her smirk. The first time he laid hands on her Marussia, she threatened to individually shatter each bone in his hand with a hammer if he so much as scratched the paint. She pulls her jacket collar up to deflect the wind and ducks her head, walking as fast as her sore ankles will allow. Her tendons are burning, muscles complaining, but it's a good type of pain that comes with an endorphin rush attached. "See you tomorrow, Fed."

"You're going the wrong way."

"No, I don't believe I am. Your car  _is_  parked over there, isn't it?"

She's fast, and far too keen to pick another fight, not that Luke has any issue tossing her into a mat repeatedly and putting her in holds till she taps out. Shaw is a cake walk in comparison to her brothers and everyone knows it; it's those bombs they have to be wary of. "Oh you Brits just love starting wars, don't you?"

"What're you going to do, Luke, dump my tea bags in the ocean? Burn my crumpets in the morning?"

"The hell'd you get the idea I'd even cook you breakfast, woman?" Luke says. First she calls him Luke, now he's getting informal too? This won't end well. His history with the Shaws is short and near-lethal: any time they pick a fight, he puts them in a hospital or prison. He jogs till he catches up to her and gets close enough to slap the cuff back on her wrist. This time it's a little tighter. "You ain't going back to the motel, you'll be staying right here."

"I can't sleep standing up."

Till Nobody gives him the nod, he's going to torment her, and for reasons he can't explain, his gut instinct says she's going to enjoy it. Hobbs picks up the pace and Shaw is forced to keep up, flinching each time the cuffs dig into her wrist because she's those few seconds too slow. "You've got a desk, don't you?"

"Those crumpets better be cooked till golden brown and dripping with butter."

"Yes, ma'am." He pronounces it the British way and salutes with his free hand as he starts to run. She's struggling to keep up but her stamina is admirable. "Would you like blood pudding with that, or beans? And shall I put the kettle on when we return to Windsor and fetch the corgis for you, ma'am?"

There's a stupid grin on his face, ugh, and his eyes are ablaze and there's sweat beading on his nose. Luke Hobbs, Diplomatic Security Service: the man who put her brothers away — God help her, why is it so hard to outright hate him? He's never going to win her over yet a feeling of respect lingers inside her. "The name wasn't my bloody choice, alright? Just shut up and run. You did say the course was the entire facility."

Luke glances at her and raises an eyebrow. That he did, but he wasn't expecting her to go along with it. Her file _does_ mention a competitive streak, one which seems to be coming out with each passing minute. Oh what the hell, if she somehow hasn't collapsed by the time they finish running the facility's perimeter, he might just make her that breakfast. "You want to make this interesting?"

"It already is. What's the bet?"

"You collapse, these cuffs stay on for the next two days."

It's not the worst thing in the world, but showering and the loo will become awkward. "And if I don't?"

"I drop you off at the motel and you get maid service in the morning."

"For the next two mornings, I think you mean. Will you be wearing top hat and tails, or should I expect a sweaty federal agent in nothing but a towel?"

"I'll have clothes on, don't you worry."

"Shame. You do have a nice arse."

Hobbs nearly does a spit take. "That's all?"

She tries to shrug as they continue to run; her heart is pounding and every inch of her body screams in protest. Lungs burning, she forces herself to run without faltering. Don't collapse, she tells herself, repeating the words in her head and mouthing them while she fights to match his pace. "Well that's all I've seen so far."


End file.
